Behind the Mask
by HalloweenSpell
Summary: He haunts the shadows and relives the lies that spread like hell fire, she clings to shadows, hiding secrets no-one else can ever know. This is set after Christine and Raoul happened. Will create a better summary, for am not very good at them... - Phantom/OC Book/2004 movie
1. Prologue

Prologue

Three months had passed since the event in the opera house; everyone thought the phantom of the opera to be dead, and those who didn't thought he had simply vanished, disappeared to find somewhere else to roam. Both parties were wrong, and were back to planning a big event to perform to an audience of an immense scale and high up the social ranking. The phantom smiled, his mask glowing softly in the candle light, he would return to their nightmares. Yet he still felt the ache in his heart, it had been three months since she had left him, he wished she would return but also wanted her to leave his mind. He looked around at his reformed lair, his organ remained, along with his instruments, but all traces of her had gone, burnt and the remains thrown into the river. All the mirrors were gone also, replaced with a handcrafted model of the stage and all the cast, stagehands and musicians. He picked up a figurine of the leading female singer, let them forget him, and then he would slowly pick them off. He would give them a month; after all, he needed time to form a plan, that no-one else could think up. A sigh startled him, who was here? After glancing around, he realised it had been him, who had sighed in exasperation. What had he been thinking, no-one would be able to navigate his labyrinth, ever since that horrendous event three months back, he had created more traps, to inflict more pain upon those stupid enough to try and find him.

His gaze was drawn to the violin propped against the wall, on a shelf, next to a stack of drawing and a red rose wrapped in a black ribboned bow. Only music could heal the heart that had been ripped from his chest, and then trampled into the dust as though a rag. Picking up the instrument, a tune spilled from the intricate silver strings, like threads of a spider's web. This instrument was as glossy as new conker, with intricate notes carved along the lower bout. Like the others used in the opera, he made this instrument himself, yet this was his most favoured. The song seemed to flow as smoothly as the water in the glassy lake, filled with sadness; his life story. Ending with a dark plummet of revenge the Opera Ghost contemplated on what was going to happen now. For no-one cared about what would happen to him, he was going to remain down here for as long as he lived and breathed.

This stray thought caused a quick flash of sadness to shine behind his eyes. The moment was as fleeting as lightning lighting up the sky, powerful but quickly vanquished by the dark clouds in his soul. Lifting a hand to the stark white mask memories raced through his mind, as painful as salt on a fresh wound. He felt the breath leave him, as though someone was strangling him, the way he had done to others. All he could picture was her, Christine, his angel. Eyes full of love as she gazed at Raoul, the idiotic boy; the one who had stolen her away.

If only she could have seen that he would have given her anything, would have been anything for her.

Yet once again, the world turned a cold shoulder to the one thing that brought a speck of light to his world of shadows. She was like a lost firefly in the night. Not really sure what she was doing, yet too afraid to turn back. She had been his everything, a voice like spun silk, only fit to be worn by angels of music. He pictured her voice, sweet as honey as it enveloped his very soul. She had been his little piece of heaven in his world of demons and hell fire.

As briefly as it had come, the memory slowly faded, like stars in the morning light. All traces of emotion faded from the face, as though the emotions painted on had been wiped off, becoming a living mask; a blank canvas. Emotion was for the weak, he; the phantom was anything but that, weak was for his victims. The Punjab lasso sat waiting to extinguish lives as easy as blowing out the flame of a candle. One month to plan, then the fear could once again return, he would be the master to all of those who tried to conquer his opera, his palace. At that he smiled, picking up the rose and smelling the faint sweetness of the petals. One fell from the bud, and he let out a soft cry, why did the rose have to die so quickly, he tried to return it, but two more spiralled down to meet with cold stone. They looked like two drops of blood. The blood that would soon once again, be staining his reputation and his hands.

Mirroring his hatred of the world, Wolves howled through the streets, kicking up dust in the faces of those bold enough to venture outside, clawing at the windows; trying to get inside. Smears of murky grey and grotesque yellows stained the sky. Gloomy smears bulged on the horizon, filled with the devilish promise of a storm to be reckoned with. Shadows capered freely on the streets, twisting into creatures found only in the darkest corners of the mind. Despite the havoc being wrecked above him, the Phantom stood in an eerie silence.

Turning on his heel, a door slammed behind him as he strode along the passages, darkness clinging to the corners of his cloak. Thunder deafened the opera house. The grave faces of the storms cried down a thick curtain of tears as the storm broke forth, sending a flurry of wind and rain down in torrents onto the murky streets below.

What defences they may have installed, what lies may have been told, the Opera Ghost is alive and those who ever opposed him are about to have their world ripped to pieces. A world of plans written using the blood from murders in cold blood, scarlet ink staining the future of those in the Opera populaire. Let them try to pretend and try to build up a wall of defences against his wrath. They will watch with frightened eyes as their walls crumble down, releasing a flood of fury upon them all.

Lightning flashed once, making the world a startling place of white and black. As contrasting as ink and paper. Although it is gone in a moment; it is forever in the mind. Like an idea for revenge, lighting up a steely glare holding the warmth of ice in a storm. A chilly glare, an icy smile; _let them lie_, he thought, _for they will pay_.

With that final thought, another flash lit up the room. The Opera Ghost had vanished; it was as if no-one had even been there. Only the rose on the floor signified any activity. As red as the enflamed hatred in the Phantom's heart, yet the crumpled petals and broken stem hinted at defeat, whilst the Phantom was anything but defeated. He was fighting.

~O~

**Hi... I had a serious writer's block with my previous story, At Firs Sight. Also, no-one seemed to like the story as nothing was given to indicate any reaction. So have turned to another story which has been in my mind for a while. I REALLY hope you like it! Please, please, please R&amp;R... Thanks x**


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you Phantasma'sRose, Forever Alone3, fall12fall, grandma paula and RedDeathLvr for reviewing my first chapter. :') They made me so happy that I have spent a while writing you all a brand new chapter to read! Before I continue, I think that a few things should be made known. In my fic, Eric is 25 (so things aren't weird age wise), my OC is 20, Christine is 18 and Raoul is 20. I really hope you enjoy this, as we get to meet our new OC! I really hope you enjoy! H.S xx**

Chapter one

The sleepy rays of early dawn light illuminated the heavy fog which enveloped the city like a blanket made of silver lined clouds. Puddles of golden liquid sunshine lay scattered on the cobblestones; hidden treasures of the world. Larks were starting to rouse from their pleasurable slumber, as faint rays of the sun peeked through the sulky storm clouds, hiding the cheery glow like dense curtains. Lonely drops of water trailed down the window panes of large houses, dragging their heels behind them. None of the actors were yet awake, still blissfully unaware of the waking world, as they indulged themselves in worlds of the unnatural. As they slept, dust collected on the shelves and the bed sheets grew stony as the bed pan's life began to slowly fade away, hand in hand with the vanishing night sky. The silence that comes with that moment when the living in the day before was gone, and the living in the present is born.

A petite figure softly treaded through the fog towards the opera house, as though one false move would crack the silence into unlucky shards like a mirror. Her feet delicately splashed through the puddles, as the ripples raced away from her bare feet and toes. The cobblestones were as slick as pebbles in a river bed, making her slip and stumble like a young foal finding its legs. As if this was not bad enough, the steps before the opera were tall and stately, whilst small rivulets trickled down the glossy marble. Despite this, she was somehow able to clamber up the entrance stairs; ready to break the silence.

The faint rapping of a delicate hand on the weary oak wood door echoed softly down hollow corridors. For but a moment, no-one stirred.

After a moment's hesitation, Madame Giry floated down the corridors in a dress the colour of rich wine; swirling around her ankles as if made from burgundy water. A dark figure watched from above the prying eyes of passers-by; narrowed eyes bursting with wonder about who might be knocking at the start of this new day. He wondered if an actor had been locked outside by Carlotta; renowned for her cruel pranks on those deemed a threat to her already deteriorating career. Neither he nor the Madame was expecting to find a girl, trembling and soaked to the skin, standing on the steps.

The first thought which came to his mind was how small she was, for she looked as though if you squeezed her to hard, she would break. Her soft hands clasped together timidly, delicate fingers interwoven together. She was so little; yet gave the impression of being a ballet dancer due to her elegant, dainty frame, like that of a swan. Madame Giry seemed more worried about the state she seemed to be in. For her hair was sopping wet, causing it to cling to her back, allowing water to stream into the ripped, muddy fabric of her simple dress. She looked extremely cold, shivering in a puddle of icy water, whilst inside, the corridor was cosy and warm. "How can I help you? Please can you hurry, as rehearsals are about to begin on the centre stage." Madame Giry asked impatiently; she was eager to return to her viewing position. The girl blinked in response, an insecure whisper swirled through the air. "P-p-please Madame, c-c-could I p-possibly ap-p-ply for a j-job a-as a stage h-hand here?" The Phantom's eyes narrowed to mere slits, as warm a puddle of ice in a winter blizzard. Yet the Madame gasped in shock and swiftly dragged the girl inside.

"You really want to work here? Are you sure?" The girl nodded her head shyly, clasping her hands behind her back. He wondered why she would want a job here, at one of the most feared places in the world. However, the Madame took her to an empty room, closing the door sharply behind her, leaving the phantom to ponder his thoughts over. Echoes of their retreating footsteps bounced around the hallway, the polished pine floor was now tarnished with the grimy footprints of the girl, an eyesore that needed removing. The footprints would not be the only thing which would need to go. The painting of an elderly woman seemed to glare up at him, as though she could read his very thoughts and found them distasteful. The painting was pale, with a lot of the same pearly blue, suiting the hair on the fierce, wrinkled face. The phantom twisted his lips into a menacing smile, what could that painting do to stop him, the girl needed to go, and her removal would once again, bring terror to the opera.

* * *

Words failed me when the Madame accepted my offer to work in the Opera. I just could not believe my ears when she asked me if I was sure if I wanted the job. Why wouldn't I? The Opera populaire is one of the grandest places in all of Paris, with the golden statues and luxuriously thick burgundy curtains, who could resist such a place? Although I did feel immensely small and pathetic next to the splendour of this building, I cannot believe that this place is to be my new home. Home. That is a word which I haven't used in forever; it means a place where you can feel safe. Compared to everywhere else I have been, I think this is the safest I can ever hope to feel. Worthless or not.

After the Madame questioned me about my choice in working here, I was dragged off down numerous corridors to my new room. I tried to memorise the number of steps and turns, but the numbers began to run together like spilled ink, making me feel as though I had been sat on a carrousel with my eyes tight shut. The corridor where my room is as far from grand as Paris is from Rome. Though given my position in life compared to the stars in the Opera, I do not deserve to complain, for these corridors are above me. For if I put in a little elbow grease through a thorough clean of the floor and some dusting on the windows, the grime which has layered itself onto the once grand face of this corridor, has turned it into a slight eye sore.

Yet even as we briskly walked beneath simple lights, which had become chandeliers made of spider silk and dusty jewels of dew from the intrusion of mould in a corner, I did not fail to notice the traces of a forgotten grandeur. Candelabras stood in shadowy corners, hidden beneath stacks of portraits encrusted with filth and useless props not worth placing in the props room. If I have the time, maybe I could bring back the seemingly forgotten elegance hidden inside the walls of this simple corridor.

The door of my new bedroom was made from a dark pine, smooth to the touch, yet stuck fast if not shut properly. The Madame dragged me inside by the arm which she held in an iron grip, before standing me before her. "Before I give you your schedule, I feel as though we should introduce ourselves. I am Madame Giry, I am the head of the dance department and should you have any problems, you must come to me. Is that understood?" My tongue feels like a stone inside my mouth, trapping any words which I can think of inside, so I silently nod my head in acknowledgement instead. "You must be awake and ready to work before six in the morning; lord must help you if you fail this requirement." Maybe it was the morbid look plastered on my face or possibly my dishevelled appearance, for her eyes softened slightly. "Don't worry, you will adapt well to the schedule of your new life here. Your bed is by the window and that screen conceals the bathroom, you should be able to find your way here I presume?" On that note, she turned to leave, yet just as the door began to sluggishly swing shut; her voice pierced the air once more. "I presume you have a name, what is it might I ask?" Her eyes as keen as a hawk's, stared for agonizing moments, as I licked my lips, trying to form the words I needed. "My name is Lillian Madame." With that, the door banged shut.

It was then that I was able to fully look at my new room. To many people my room would probably seem basic and simple. To me, it was luxury. The floor was made of basic matting, the colour of young birch trees, which looked pretty in a natural way; despite being partially worn in patches. My eyes travelled to the walls which hung with a simple design of gently blushing blossoms from a tulip tree. A simple white bed rested against the farthest wall, the floral pillow sleeping beneath the window like a well fed pussy cat. The window was rather large, with faded creamy muslin curtains hanging from the lofty pole above; framing the breath-taking view of thousands of roofs of every shade of colour bathed in clear morning light. Next to the bed was a basic pale wardrobe, the handles encased with dust whilst the racks hanging worryingly bear.

On my right was a small bookshelf, still waiting to carry books of my choosing; a washed-out pale wicker chair sat nearby adorned with a frayed plush rose coloured pillow. The back of the chair leant against a white wooden screen decorated in faded periwinkle birds, hiding the chipped metal bath, toilet and sink from prying eyes. Tiptoeing over to the chair, I let myself sink into the pillow. Despite being lumpy in places, I was oddly comfortable. Closing my eyes, I let myself sigh in contentment; allowing myself to sink into a state of pure bliss.

The icy water weighing down my dress was starting to numb my body and bones to the core. I gave an almost inaudible groan at the idea of a hot bath. An immense wave of pleasure encased my being when I felt the intense heat of the bath water splash onto my hands. Sending ripples of pins and needles up my arms, yet I could not bring myself to care about such trivial sacrifices of my arm's well-being.

Once the bath was brimming with steaming water, I was able to discard my wintry garment and sink into the boiling water's burning embrace. Maybe it was the lulling warmth or the peaceful state my mind was in, but before I knew it, darkness enveloped my senses.

_The graveyard was eerily silent; crows sat in the trees like shadows whilst a fog swirled ominously at my ankles. All the graves stood tall and erect like soldiers waiting to march, medals adorning the place where they stood in the form of flowers, both fresh and decaying. Mud squelched up beneath her bare toes, sticking to the soles and making movement nearly impossible. My feet were on a mission of their own accord, nothing I could do would stop the direction of their motion, for a fleeting moment I considered myself to be possessed. It seemed ridiculous, until the graves began to fade into the distance, leaving me alone with the fog; then the notion became terrifying. I wanted to cry out for help, but couldn't find the air to do so. An invisible hand seemed to be clamped on my throat, keeping me isolated from even my own voice. Then, as though sensing my loneliness, a single grave loomed up from the gloom. Something in my mind told me not to look, to not see what was written on the crumbling stone, but my feet refused to obey my wish to stay away. I tried to stare into the fog, but some unseen force drew my eyes to the clumsily written words engraved into this grave. 'Carissa Norseth', it said 'died 1871, cause of death: unknown.' "This is wrong!" I managed to choke out. "I am still alive, the year is wrong, I am living flesh!" As though to prove my point; I held my hand up for inspection. Then to my silent horror, my hand began to disintegrate, as though it were mist when touched by the sun's rays. Without a sound, the world smeared away, like someone had chucked water over a canvas of grey paint, smearing everything into darkness. This new darkness sat frostily upon my chest, smothering my screams as they became unearthly loud, yet I was not the one screaming._

My eyes flew open; I was sat in a bath. My bath. It was just a dream, a nightmare to be precise. Now the water was cold, forcing me to get up and change into a flimsy looking nightgown and climbing into my ice cold bed. The only warmth I could feel was from the salty tears that ran races down my cheeks as I cried myself to sleep.

**So... O_O what did you think? Please read and review! They mean so much to me! :D xx Bye! x**


	3. Chapter 2

**Hey, I feel really bad that I haven't uploaded in ages, but school work has me in its grasp, along with Christmas. Thankyou to RedDeathLvr, fall12fall, Forever Alone3, Phantasma'sRose and grandma paula for taking the time to review my growing fanfiction. Here's chapter 2! As I go through the story, we will gradually have more pieces of Lilly's life story be revealed at certain points; yet for now, introductions are still being made. She will meet the Phantom either in the next chapter or chapter 4, I can't wait to write those chapters and upload them. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 2

The lead Cello player had it coming the moment he arrived. He was tone death, out of tune and was so rude that pompous would be less than fitting for this spoilt brat of a man. As he flounced across the stage beneath the rafters where I am perched, I reflect on the number of chances I had given him before I planned this. He began to play on my nerves years ago, when Christine was able to divert my attention from me with her hypnotic voice. _Christine_. How I would give all my music to hear you sing again.

But she left me.

She left me to my own sorrows, ripping out my heart with her simple words, leaving a black hole in its place. Leaving me to my own demons, who constantly plague the very essence of my being and mind. Whispering sweet horrors for my revenge, if only the naïve angel had not left her devoted devil to cavort to her career's end, then maybe things would not be how they stand now.

Yet here I am, waiting to strike the man dead. He should have vanished long ago if he had any even the slightest hope of escaping my wrath. I sent him three letters; three chances. Each one was burnt into the ashes that stain my world of music. The tables are now turning. This time, he is the candle flame, who burns all hope for himself up, whilst I sit and wait. Biding my precious time, to extinguish such a pitiful little flame with a single breath, before he is wiped from existence in an instant; gone.

I had been planning this for a while. The sandbags that normally hung from the rafters had mysteriously vanished into the shadows of the night. Instead, two moth eaten bags sat beside me, begging for their release. I could just hear the crack of his neck, would it be a mere snap, or will it be a satisfying crunch? As the target roamed nearer, I could feel every muscle tensing in sweet anticipation. He was right beneath me; the perfect moment had arrived.

Something whispered through the air, a weak cry from the rafters. Even so, I hesitated for too long, even as the bags plummeted to the ground like two thunderbolts from a stormy cloud rounded with malice, I was sure they would miss. Luck seemed to be on my side, for the idiotic fop stepped to the side, allowing the perfect route for his neck.

**_Crack_**

Lying on the floor mid-sentence, in a crumpled heap of limbs and cloth, he was stone dead. Although the kill was clean, the satisfaction was tainted by the near miss. For although the deed had been carried out, whatever had caused the near miss would pay dearly. How dare they mess with the tasks of the notorious Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

Horrified screams jerked me awake from my nightmares. For a second, I could not remember where I was, for I do not remember having a bed in my bedroom or even a proper room at that. Then it came back to me. I had a job, at the famous Opera Populaire, I glanced at the cracked ivory clock hanging desolately on the wall. It was just a few minutes past five in the morning, I soundlessly stretched before noticing the maid's uniform laid out for me, along with two other dresses, all three were rather basic and looked as though they had been handed down many times; yet I nearly cried with happiness at the idea of having my own set of clothes.

Although I had been having a nightmare, I do not recall screaming. My throat was not sore so it must have been someone else, if so, then why? The uniform I wear is a charcoal grey, with stiff sleeves rolled up just above the elbow and a pleated skirt just below my knees. As I zipped up the back, my mind wondered back to the screams I had heard. Something awful must have provoked them; otherwise they would not have sounded so terrified or have been so loud.

Sturdy black boots made of thick leather were placed over my feet, cushioned with moth eaten wool socks. Straitening the white apron, my hand latched onto a bucket and mop, ready to start my first day. The precaution of tying back my hair was done in moments, in a rather messy bun, but it will have to do. Padding down the corridor, the air held a sense of danger, similar to the kind felt before a storm breaks loose. Even as my feet reluctantly led me to the main stage, I had steeled myself for the worst. Clusters of people stood together at the edges of the stray pieces of scenery.

All sorts of people were gathered, some disgruntled musicians and actors, Madame Giry with two middle aged men who are grandly dressed and talking animatedly to one another, whilst a large huddle of ballet rats are shrieking in high pitched voices. "It's the phantom; he's ruthlessly killed the lead cello player." Her eyes are so wide, her voice is shrill with fear. But it's the subject of the conversation which I find intriguing. I had some knowledge about the mysterious phantom of this Opera, yet I thought he vanished along with the original opera. Out of the corner of my eye, a slightly broken figure is being carried through the wings by two burly stage hands. Whoever this Phantom is, he knows how to stir fear into the thick of things.

"Girls, Silence! I will not have you ruining you practice by scaring yourselves silly with rumours!" Sharp and stern, Madame Giry's voice pierces through the air; you can hear the authority in her voice yelling to be obeyed. Immediately the chatters amongst the ballet rats ceases instantly. Maybe it really was just an accident. After all, these things do tend to happen when we least expect it. But even though I repeat this in my head, my heart rate refuses to decrease, whilst my spine prickles with the sensation that I am being watched from somewhere, it feels like holes are being burnt into the back of my head.

The door to the cleaning room finally rasps open after hauling my weight against it, for the hinges are caked in thick layers of rust and grime. The only thing in this room is a few bars of yellow soap and a tap blanketed in mildew, the only sound is the constant dripping from the tap onto the concrete floor. My bucket clatters onto the floor, the metal clashing with the stone. The harsh noise causes me to freeze, although the rumours are said to be untrue, why risk being killed by some ghost due to being careless or noisy? Icy water falls in a race to the bucket, splashing against my bare legs causing goose pimples to stand against my skin. I doubt that it is just the frosty bite of the water which has caused them to form.

As the bucket gradually fills with water, my feet tingle with restlessness. No-one is going to come here for a while and no-one can see me, so maybe, just for a while, I can let myself have a moment where the only thing that matters is the music in my soul. Drawing a deep breath through my cracked lips, I allow the song inside me to spill from within my entire being. In my mind, a single piano was being played in a moonlit forest, each note crystal clear in the night air.

"Where do I begin?  
Crying off my face again  
the silent sounds of loneliness  
wants to follow me to bed

I'm a ghost of a girl that I want to be most  
I'm the shell of a girl that I used to know well

Dancing slowly in an empty room  
can the lonely take the place of you?  
I sing myself a quiet lullaby  
Let you go and let the lonely in to take my heart again,"

At each crescendo, I gained a bit more courage to sing with more compassion and with a bit more volume to each syllable of each word.

"Too afraid to go inside  
For the pain of one more loveless night  
But the loneliness will stay with me  
And hold me 'til I fall asleep

I'm a ghost of a girl that I want to be most  
I'm the shell of a girl that I used to know well

Dancing slowly in an empty room  
can the lonely take the place of you?  
I sing myself a quiet lullaby  
Let you go and let the lonely in to take my heart again

Where do I begin?  
Crying off my face again  
the silent sounds of loneliness  
wants to follow me to bed

I'm a ghost of a girl that I want to be most  
I'm the shell of a girl that I used to know well

Dancing slowly in an empty room  
can the lonely take the place of you?  
I sing myself a quiet lullaby  
Let you go and let the lonely in to take my heart again,"

My voice swirled throughout the room, high and free, almost thick enough to feel the sorrow weigh against my shoulders, clinging to my dress with trembling grey fingers. The barriers holding back my flood of pain crumble to dust as it floods through my voice; each note pricks my heart with a thousand memories. Memories I wish were forgotten.

"Too afraid to go inside  
for the pain of one more loveless night  
But the loneliness will stay with me  
and hold me 'til I fall asleep

I'm a ghost of a girl that I want to be most  
I'm the shell of a girl that I used to know well

Dancing slowly in an empty room  
can the lonely take the place of you?  
I sing myself a quiet lullaby  
Let you go and let the lonely in to take my heart again."

Tears threated to spill over my pale cheeks, yet although I felt choked with the release of the hidden emotions inside me, there was also the tiniest part of me that was able to rejoice to have been allowed to sing again. Water swirled in the solitary pail, shadowy and foreboding against the shiny interior.

Carefully picking up the brimming bucket, I shakily make my way out into the desolate corridors, mop in hand, somewhat ready to begin my first day of my new life in the Opera Populaire.

* * *

**Zut alors, a death in the second chapter, quelle horreur! Ta-Daa! A little is revealed about her previous life in that song. I'm not saying who the person she is singing about is yet, or their importance I n the story, you will just have to wait and see. Please review, they mean so much to me, and give me new inspirations! Au revoir! xx**


	4. Chapter 3

**Hey everyone. I'm really sorry that I haven't submitted for ages... I've been struggling with this chapter for a while, along with social and school problems/pressures, high levels of stress and lack of sleep. Have tried really hard to make this a longer chapter for you to read. Really hope you like this chapter, you will have your first little insight to my OC's backstory. Please enjoy! x**

A dull throb emitting from my palm prevents me from forgetting about the bucket in my hand, its rusty handle is biting into the soft flesh of my hand, dark water sloshes around inside as the bucket is steadily moved around the grimy stage. The bustle of people have calmed down a bit since the discovered corpse, a constant chatter circulates around the stage as dancers and stage crew alike work hard, perfecting every little detail ready for tonight's performance.

I am amongst them, scrubbing at the wafer thin layer of grime which keeps reappearing as people walk to and thro across its earthy brown surface. Once I have managed to make one area shine, I move on to the next only to see that the spot which I had just finished has once again been carelessly walked over.

Heavily perfumed with the acrid scent of sweat, powdered chalk on ballet shoes and fresh paint, the air leaves me feeling slightly light headed. Only the bucket's bite keeps my mind grounded inside my head.

There is a slight tranquillity within the room, despite the general buzz of gossip, almost as though the stage has been embraced with a drowsy sense of peace. As though merging all the background noises together like spilled ink on a fresh canvas to form a gentle lull within my ears. But then, even that seems to fade away into a silence that causes sluggish movement of my limbs and soon I am struggling to keep my eyes awake as my surroundings begin to become fuzzy from fatigue.

A piercing screech jerks me awake as a stately figure comes striding in, swathed in a dress of heavy mould coloured silk and black lace, which greatly contrasts with her precariously placed wig of an almost garish coloured scarlet. She looks like she could once have been considered beautiful, yet that beauty has been spoilt like a rotten apple. Her sharp features are drawn in an enraged frown; her piercing eyes are almost lost beneath her furrowed brows whilst her mouth is tautly pulled into a pout.

Without warning, her mouth falls open to emit a screeching torrent of complaints. "Eez this ze best you can do? I 'ate eet!" She rapidly starts gesturing at everything in sight, from the pieces of scenery to the worn out shoes of the ballet rats. "Redo every think; else I will not perform at ze show tonight. Plus, what eez wrong with this dress, eet looks like a carpeet. 'ow am I supposed to perform in zis, eet brings out ze worst colours of me." She did have a slight point; the colour of the dress gave her skin a sickly yellow appearance, as though it was made of old parchment.

Suddenly she turned on the two managers who silently watched her with exasperated expressions plastered on their faces. I guess this is not a one off thing. "I should look like a precious gem, not a drab peacock. What 'ag made zis? They should 'ave been fired long ago. This is not good enough, if this eez not fixed, then find your selves a new prima donna!" With that she flounced off the stage, ignoring the dirty looks and snide remarks thrown at her by passing stage crew, slamming the heavy oak doors behind her.

Silence rested heavily amongst all of us. It is broken by a gentle fluttering noise, reminding me of the sound a butterfly makes when it beats its wings near to your ear. It wasn't a butterfly, but a letter. Stamped upon the front was a seal of a skull in blood red wax, earning some gasps from the stage crew scattered around near me. I wonder why they so scared about this letter, sure the seal is creepy, but it is still a letter. Surely the content cannot be that bad? However, from the performance Carlotta just gave us, I guess not. From the faces of Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre, this does not look like anything positive is going to come from that letter as they carefully break the seal and scan the letter's contents; I let my eyes wander to the rafters many feet above us. My ears tune out the mutterings between the two managers, as I gaze into the darkness I remember memories that I thought had been forgotten, that I don't want to ponder upon. This new train of thought instantly snaps me out of the trance that I was in.

Immediately I continue scrubbing the floorboards whilst everyone else remains stationary. It allows me to clean in peace until at last the job is done. The entire time no-one moved from their positions, they just soberly stared at the managers with fear etched upon their features. The managers stopped conferring amongst one another and swanned off towards their office, avoiding any eye contact by lifting their heads unnaturally high. Once they were gone, I felt a small pang of pity for the stage crew as the managers had not offered them any support or information about the letter or what it may suggest for them. The only positive thing that my mind could muster was that at least the stage is now clean after everyone froze up from the letter's appearance. Eventually the stage crew gradually scuffle off to other spots within the opera until I am alone with my thoughts and a bucket of slightly grubby water, the icy rag still lying in my hand.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, whilst goose pimples break out along my arms. Although I appear to be alone, the feeling of being watched by invisible eyes clearly means that I am not. But where are they? I glance at the rafters above where the letter floated down from, but to no avail. The fears of the stage crew must be getting into my mind, or maybe the panic of the ballet rats from earlier is gradually turning me mad… I gently shake my head at myself, I can't believe that this is already starting to affect my nerves; it's time to get a grip. There is no phantom, but if there is, then why would he bother with me? He wouldn't. So it's time to start scrubbing the hallways instead of standing on the stage like one of the golden statues, except I'm probably less regal to the eye. Finally my body connected back to my brain's orders as I finally manage to shuffle off stage, my legs feel like lead whilst the goose pimples on my arms refuse to stand down, like disobedient soldiers standing to attention, ignoring their officer's commands.

Once I was behind the many elaborate pieces of scenery used for stage props, could I breathe easier, as though my lungs had been released from an invisible grip that I wasn't aware of until now. The ache in my hand reminds me that I should hurry up to complete the cleaning for the day, which I decide to comply to. Maybe later I could explore a bit. A bit of curiosity can never hurt, and apparently the view from the rooftops is amazing. But first, it's time to tackle the grime clinging to the bannisters of the opera house entrance, the same colour as Carlotta's dress. As I set off though, the echo of my clumpy boots sounded like another set of footsteps inside the walls. I just shake my head. Before I know it I would start screaming ghost as I turn around every corner. After all, I reason, why would the infamous opera ghost bother with me?

* * *

Carlotta's screeches are aggravating enough to make me want to jump down from the rafters and strangle her with my bare hands there and then, only the audience that had rapidly gathered around her prevents me from doing so. But oh, it is so tempting. Upon inspection, I notice the street girl from earlier to be amongst them, trying to clean the vast amount of stage floor as others moved around her, like water swirling around a pebble in a stream.

The letter sits patiently in my hand, the burgundy skull grinning manically into my eyes, as I wait for the best opportunity to let it slip down to the stage below. Shadows seem to cling to my figure with hands the colour of a raven's wing, hiding me from any prying eyes. Eventually the potato with a scarlet wig decided to storm out, providing the perfect moment of silence for my letter to enter upon. The letter flutters from my hand, dancing down to the stage like a ballet dancer suspended in the dusty air. One of the mangers retrieves it, like the obedient dog he should be, as their audience gathers round with wide, frightened eyes.

All accept one.

Only the street girl continues on with her task, seemingly oblivious to the terror I am bringing down upon those around her, as hefty as a ton of bricks, yet she continues to scrub at the muddy floorboards as though her life depends upon it. Which I guess it does, but that is beside the point. She should be trembling where she kneeled, fearing for her life, but no. Instead she just carries on scrubbing the floorboards beneath her, even though the true filth is her very being. Just like the muck her rag removes, I will soon remove her, as she stains my opera as bad as any blotch on silken sheets.

I'm snapped out of this reverie of thought as she pauses in what she is doing, as her eyes travel over the gloomy rafters above her, resting on the spot where I stand, out of her line of sight. My eyes meet her curious gaze, as I glare at her from my lofty perch, trying to burn a hole right through her forehead. Although she is staring straight at me, the nonchalant expression on her face and distant look behind her eyes show that her mind is elsewhere. For a moment, I'm oddly curious as to what she could be thinking about, but I instantly crush it, why should I care about some measly street girl, soon she won't even exist.

Something causes her to snap out of the odd trance she was in, as she is once again scrubbing the floorboards. I wonder how she should be removed, I would like for it to be done in a way which will cause everyone to cease their doubts of how terrifying I truly am. I want them to fear me, to scream, I want to haunt their nightmares as they sleep and weigh on their minds during the day. It will just be a simple matter of timing, planning, and precision.

I notice that the stage crew are starting to sluggishly drift away, they are moving as though being pulled by invisible wires to their acquired places, merely puppets inside my opera house; my childhood playground. Within moments, only the street girl remains, still holding her sopping wet rag in her hand. At least she was able to clean the stage to some degree. A glare is imitated from my eyes, scrutinizing her as though she is a puny bug, constantly glaring into her back as I silently descend from the rafters, hidden in the gloom on the stage.

As though she can detect another presence, she begins to stare up into the rafters yet instantly shakes her head, as though she is reprimanding herself for doing so. Seconds pass by; my breathing is inaudible to my surroundings, whilst hers can be faintly detected by my acute hearing. I wonder how easily it would be to cause them to be rendered silent. Could I be able to carry out the task with my bare hands effectively, or would I need to use my trusted lasso?

Whilst I ponder over the question, the street girl jerks forward as unsteady on her feet as the stage crew when they have managed to obtain alcohol, which is most of the time. Maybe if I add a little something to their daily liquor, then they may think twice before working drunk again. Something left twirling in the still air in her wake catches my eye. Before it touches the polished oak floor, my hand mutely snatches it, cutting short its graceful dance amongst the swirls of dust, turned golden in the thin beams of light penetrating from somewhere far above. In my gloved hand rests a feather. It is unlike anything I have seen in all of my travels. As long as the tip of my finger to the base of my palm, a soft silvery grey, like moonshine with wavy stripes of deep amber, burgundy red and chocolate brown. Minute speckles of ebony black and chalky white are freely scattered across the surface, it is both wiry like spider silk and as soft as thistle down at the same time. It is unique.

Carefully, so as to prevent crushing or breaking it, I place the feather within an inside pocket of my cloak, before gliding through the shadows to stand a few feet away from where the street girl stood. Although her back is to me, I can see that she has tensed up again. It is so tempting just to reach forward, muffle her screams with one hand and extinguish her life with the other; it is so temptingly easy to do. It almost pains me not to do so. But I need to wait; a quick simple death will not suffice for the plan of terror about to be unleashed. With another shake of her head she begins to walk away to another corridor, only once she has turned the corner do I begin to head off towards her room.

Although it is not time to remove her, I decide to look into how exactly I can do this in the best possible way. Maybe add a sense of panic to her dreams and give her a chance to be a bit more aware of what is happening around her. After all, I reason, a little bit of investigation and letter writing will do no harm. Well, not quite yet any way. Then, with an extravagant swirl of my cape, I am gone from the spot where I previously stood.

To any onlooker, it will appear that no-one was there at all; for not even the dust particles in the air have stirred.

**So... What did you think? I know it is a little stodgy, but the good stuff is still to come. Please R&amp;R! Thank you! Bye for now! xxxxx**


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